


The Moment Was Passed, Until It Wasn't

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9561206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: Sherlock has returned to 221B at the end of The Lying Detective. Molly is watching him overnight. As she sleeps, Sherlock plays through the moment he shared with John earlier and wishes he'd acted differently.Angsty/Sad Sherlock with a happy/hopeful ending.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/gifts).



> Written from a prompt given to me by the fabulous Valeria2067: Johnlock, "saying I love you with a shuddering gasp" and "You Came Back"
> 
> I enjoy angst and fluff and boys being soft/having feelings. This poured out of me. I have a lot to work out re: Sherlock S4, ok? I think we all do, of course. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @homosociallyyours

The moment was passed. They’d left the flat and gone for cake–cupcakes, actually, Molly’s idea. Better than expected, small enough to eat in two bites and with unusual flavors: lemon and lavender, orange and thai basil and mint chocolate, goat cheese and passion fruit. One vanilla sponge with plain chocolate frosting and silver dragées that reminded him of birthdays when he was young. 

Sherlock put a hand over his stomach and patted. Molly was asleep, snoring softly. Supposed to be watching him, but there was no need tonight. Not after John had come so close. Or Sherlock had. He wasn’t sure. Tea might help. 

He eased himself up from his chair, quiet and careful, half to keep Molly from waking up–she needed to sleep, really–and half to keep himself from crying out. The bruises of John’s beating–not to mention the abuse he’d done to himself leading up to it–had started clearing, but he found he hurt all the way to the bone these days. His hand shook as he reached for a mug, absently flicking the kettle on. 

The moment was passed, wasn’t it? John had told him to take a chance, to love someone, and he’d come so close to saying it. Finally, out loud, John standing there, berating himself. He’d almost said that he thought what Mary thought. That John was good–the best–man. That whatever he did, he’d made Sherlock better. Exposed something Sherlock had kept back for so long, longer than he could remember. His heart. 

“John,” Sherlock exhaled, quiet. Soft. His mouth played over what he’d have said next. “You have made me better. More human. You’ve loved me, and I love you. I love you.” The kettle clicked off. “I’m in love with you,” he said aloud, voice barely a whisper. His hand clenched against his mug, squeezing it as tears began to fall from his eyes. He was shaking, but silent. He breathed deep, in and out breaths, until he felt the heaviness in his chest start to dissipate. He poured the water into his mug and went to his chair, seeing that Molly had shifted on the couch while he was in the kitchen and grateful that she still seemed to be asleep. 

Sherlock drifted off too, eventually, though his dreams were haunted by the faces and hands of men who wanted him: dead, alive, theirs. Their voices and bodies blended into one. Magnussen, Moriarty, Milverton. They grabbed him, tugging off his coat, shirt, trousers, til he was naked, running past them, the slick sound of their whispers turning his legs to soft rubber. He couldn’t run anymore. 

“Exhausted, Sherlock? Tired of running?” they asked, pushing him to the ground. It sank with his weight, swallowing him. “Who can help you now?” 

“John,” he said, his voice a frog’s croak half stuck in his throat. “John!” He yelled louder, frantic. He should have said it. When John admitted cheating he should have stopped him. Told him the sins of the past could be forgiven. That Sherlock had cheated him, left him without a word. That Mary had cheated him–lied to him, left him. That John, too, was not beyond the very human act of deception. That it didn’t make Sherlock love him less. 

Hands closed over his shoulders and Sherlock woke, sobbing. John’s face came into focus above him: worry, regret, fear, compassion. Love? 

“I love you,” Sherlock said with a shuddering gasp. “Please. Human, you made me. Human. I love,” he was hyperventilating, choking on his own breath. Desperate to wake up. Suddenly Molly appeared behind John and Sherlock realized he wasn’t dreaming any more. 

“Back,” he said, between stuttering breaths. “You–came–back.” 

“Molly texted, said she was worried,” John said, smoothing a hand through Sherlock’s hair. Behind him, Molly bit her lip and looked away. She knew. Always knew, clever Molly. 

“Breathe for me Sherlock, slow breaths now, with me,” John said, inhaling and exhaling, slow and steady. “That’s good,” he said, when Sherlock’s breath started to come back to him. “Very good.” 

“You came back,” he said again, voice raw from crying, sleep, shouting–from his life for the past few weeks. 

“Of course I did,” John said, one hand still on Sherlock’s pulse and the other resting on his head. 

“I should have told you earlier. Stopped you. Only I couldn’t, once you." Sherlock paused, looking down, afraid to face John. "When one chooses to confess something difficult, it’s best not to stop them, I’ve found. Better out than in, or get on with it. Confessing, that is,” he reined in the thousands of tributaries of emotion that were bleeding out of him, forcing them into a single, unified stream of thought. “I’m in love with you, John. You. Not Irene Adler, not any other person in the world. I don’t have many friends. You know this. You truly are my best friend, the best man that I have ever known. And you–I don’t deserve you. Could never deserve you. But I had to tell you, come what will.” Sherlock waited, still not daring to look into John’s eyes, the thought of what could be there to terrible a risk. 

“Hey,” John said, sliding his fingers from Sherlock’s wrist and into his upturned palm, clasping his hand. “Sherlock, look–look at me, please,” he said. Quiet, serious, possible–-impossible. 

Sherlock looked up to see John smiling down at him. Fond, warm, kind, open. Possible. John.


End file.
